He Told Me to Live

21 | Cinder

Like most already know, I do not have a name.

A night terror, a phantom killer, an invisible poison, I've been called many things like that. But before it all, I was Songbird. Isa's Songbird.

I never had a name. I never maintained a consistent alias.

But he prodded me for one.

Stood next to him, I looked scrawny, with his broad shoulders the equivalent of my arm span and his jawline so defined that it seemed like it could grate me. He was an ideal fighter in many people's minds.

But he was actually very gentle.

Cinder was actually very gentle.

He was the oldest amongst the trainees, about a year older than our average age, while I was the youngest, two years younger than the average age.

Assassins are normally scouted out amongst a group of people who lost everything, so they have nothing to lose. He seemed too joyous to have lost everything.

He stood one foot taller than the rest of us.

His smile two times wider.

And his eyes three times brighter.

I remember thinking he was foolish. Think of a puppy amongst war dogs. It just doesn't work.

Cinder sucked at fighting. He could be taken down by me in no time flat, and yet he'd still grin up at me with that same smile that was two times wider than everyone else's and say, "You're nothing like a delicate flower, are you?"

I viewed him like a giant stuffed animal. Easy to punch and beat but it will maintain its threaded smile.

None of us trainees knew why he was here.

How could someone like him be scouted out by our stone cold teachers, who trained us vigorously from the very beginning?

But, this was when I was able to raise a blade at my own command.

After that part of me snapped... he was the only one there.

It was an intense whipping from accidentally failing one of the tests.

"Hey..." He opened the door to the barracks. "You got really injured today. Are you alright?"

I hadn't answered.

"Come here." He had suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed, his arms open for me to fall into. I remember his warm embrace, somehow comfortable despite his sculpted figure. He told me all about horses and birds and all sorts of animals, some I've never even heard of.

That was my form of comfort.

He was three years older than me. Sometimes, I remember how much of an older brother he was to me and still regret.

The blood of hundreds of people are on my hands.

But his blood is the blood that stained my hands. For he was my first. My very first kill.

He was the answer to my question of loyalty.

I never hesitated slicing a dummy of straw with my blade or having three arrows pierce through a rubber skull. But I hesitated with him.

I said that Cinder had the brightest eyes, holding the entire night sky in them, twinkling as his excitement peaked.

But when I look back, all I remember is his smile, saying, "You're quite the delicate flower, aren't you?"